THE clock ticks the slow minutes out, And the lamp listens as I write. Soon I shall close mine eyes, no doubt, And sleep and dream of us to-night. The soft glow o'er my forehead slips, Thy voice sounds in my fevered ear . . . Thy smiling name is on my lips, And on my hand thy fingers dear. I feel the charm of yesterday; Thy poor heart sobs within me now; And, in this dreaming, who shall say Whether 'tis I who write, or thou. . . . | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE by EMILY DICKINSON DEFEAT AND VICTORY by WALLACE RICE CIRCUS AT NIGHT by MADELEINE AARON FATHERHOOD by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN MY MOTHER by BEULAH VICK BICKLEY CROMEK SPEAKS by WILLIAM BLAKE THE WANDERER: 4. IN SWITZERLAND: THE HEART AND NATURE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |